Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pain. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 04, 2014

Reflections on African Women's Theology - On Mercy Amba Oduyoye

Daughters of Anowa: African Women and Patriarchy
by Mercy Amba Oduyoye   Second Half

In chapter 6 of Daughters of Anowa, Mercy Oduyoye says “The framework of patriarchy is constructed on many pillars. Each requires scrutiny, but patriarchy itself is defective and must be torn down” (153). Within the second half of her book, Oduyoye looks at several of those pillars, including the impact of Western ideology’s influence upon patriarchy. She says “ Traditional norms are enforced whenever they serve to silence women, reduce or eliminate their voices. My observation is that these traditional systems have been strengthened by Western patriarchal structures as national governments and institutions have been formed” (151). The horrific irony of this is exasperated by the prevalence of customary law and ambivalence to civil law. Civil law, constructed from Western models, is limited by lack of provision for important existing structures in Akan society, such as polygyny. Marriage and inheritance for children are often adversely affected by interference of misaligned civil law (161-162). Another angle of patriarchy are the oppressive expectations on African women. Oduyoye says “To expect women to uphold all that is humanizing in African culture and yet deny their participation in the politics of family and nation is like asking them to make bricks without straw (171).
The essay "A Coming Home to Myself: The Childless Woman in teh West Africa Space" which is in the tribute to Letty Russell, is another example of the rich prose with which Oduyoye writes. She shares her personal experience of internalized oppression and shame of the familial and cultural expectations for childbearing and most importantly her journey to acceptance and affirmation of God’s love and call for her life, a call without biological children, but with great potential for creative generation of life. Our reading of this article stems from a question I asked in class about how to care pastorally for women within such a communally driven identity. Dr. Mombo responded graciously, replying that the individual’s experience of pain and suffering is always there and suggested this article as an example. I’m looking forward to discussion in class about this essay. Oduyoye describes thoroughly the despair and grief she lived with during her reproductive years and shares her testimony of grace and healing coming from God, from a specific experience as well as from her theological construction. I wonder, then, what her advice to African ministers and women elders who counsel women would be.

The ambiguity of reproductive potential and reality of infertility are at odds within a woman’s experience. Female autonomy means that we are told we choose whether we want to have children or not. But, in a society that views the choice of childlessness as abnormal, how much choice do we really have in our desires? I envy my friends who have come to the decision to be childfree due to a genuine desire to not have kids. My soul longs for that level of confirmation. But, instead, I am left with fibroids, in a similar way as Mercy, and thanks to access to more testing ability than the actual medical understanding of what’s going on, I am aware of multiple chronic conditions contributing to infertility and access to only vaguely understood interventions that did not work. My passion for reproductive concerns stems from my own experience… one that includes walking down state-assisted hallways with limited access to care as well as walking down privatized hallways with access limited only to your checkbook and your privileges in society. Both were hallways of shame, fear, and grief. 

Friday, February 01, 2013

The Song of a Spiritual Midwife

There's a part of me that cringes at making comparisons about birth and death. I'm 34 and I am not a midwife ushering in the hopes and dreams of new life, but a midwife to a journey that reveals to us only the end of this mortal experience. Everything in my being can be convinced that the end is the beginning of something terribly wonderful and unimaginably beautiful, but I don't get to see that beginning. I do not get to witness the blossom of a person's life after death or watch how she grows into her true self. All I see is the labor of death, all I can do is hold her hand while she makes that journey on her own.

Here I sit, a spiritual midwife to hundreds of people who labored through death. I witness how precious life is, how precious love and connection are. I desperately want to be a part of this cycle of life. I want to watch a life begin, grow and blossom. I want that life to be one I helped create. But, I will not be creating a baby, a new life within my own body. However, I have so many options for fostering and adopting and watching a life grow and blossom within my care. I'm sure many wonder why I don't just push forward towards those options. I'm not sure why myself at times. I could claim it is the inherent wisdom of a hospice chaplain to honor the time of grieving an unattainable dream. However, I can only say my heart is not ready.

Meanwhile, I spend much of my time with people close to death by singing softly to them. That which calms and quiets the fears of those new to life, also creates peace for those at the end. Tonight as I was perusing books about infertility, I came across the title Unsung Lullabies and it felt like grief was stabbing my heart. Of all the images that break my heart, the worst is the dream of singing my baby to sleep. What an intimate moment of connection. So full of meaning. It is not just that image, but of singing to my baby in the park, in the car, throughout life.

Singing is more than a balm for restless nights. Singing connects an experience with our emotions, our memories and our spiritual selves. While singing Amazing Grace to a patient, not only are memories and emotions evoked, but perhaps even her experience of the sacred. Someday I may hold a baby and sing a lullaby to her and calm the fears of being new to life. Yet, I already am singing lullabies each day to someone new to dying. It is sacred, this role of midwife, whether for birth or for death.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Peace to you for Christmas

pray peace by Cheryl Lawrie

peace does not always come in the shape of a baby
in a season that abounds with fertile miracles
pray peace for those for whom every breathless, wondrous mention
of babies born
will bring only unspeakable pain.
pray peace for the Elizabeths who will not get pregnant,
for whom no miracle will occur, at any age
who know themselves only as cursed.
pray peace for the Marys who are pregnant and who do not want to be
for whom every movement inside is a reminder of fear and despair.
pray peace for the Marys whose partners say ‘no’.
pray peace for the Rachels whose babies have died
and whose cries will go unheard
in the clamour of christmas bells and carols.
and pray peace for the unnamed women
whose stories are not spoken out loud in the bible
the women who ended pregnancies
the women who miscarried
the women who will never have the chance to have children
pray peace for the women for whom this Christmas story is only a reminder
of the inadequacy
and failure,
the grief
and the guilt,
they feel every month.
peace does not always come in the shape of a baby.
peace does not always come in the shape of a baby.

Friday, December 21, 2012

A fellow spiritual caregiver in hospice shared this today...


A Blessing for One Who is Exhausted
by John O'Donohue


Original Language English

... When the rhythm of the heart becomes hectic,
Time takes on the strain until it breaks;
Then all the unattended stress falls in
On the mind like an endless, increasing weight,

The light in the mind becomes dim.
Things you could take in your stride before
Now become laborsome events of will.

Weariness invades your spirit.
Gravity begins falling inside you,
Dragging down every bone.

The tide you never valued has gone out.
And you are marooned on unsure ground.
Something within you has closed down;
And you cannot push yourself back to life.

You have been forced to enter empty time.
The desire that drove you has relinquished.
There is nothing else to do now but rest
And patiently learn to receive the self
You have forsaken for the race of days.

At first your thinking will darken
And sadness take over like listless weather.
The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.

You have traveled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come to take you back.

Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.

Become inclined to watch the way of rain
When it falls slow and free.

Imitate the habit of twilight,
Taking time to open the well of color
That fostered the brightness of day.

Draw alongside the silence of stone
Until its calmness can claim you.
Be excessively gentle with yourself.

Stay clear of those vexed in spirit.
Learn to linger around someone of ease
Who feels they have all the time in the world.

Gradually, you will return to yourself,
Having learned a new respect for your heart
And the joy that dwells far within slow time.

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Those Simple Questions Are Always the Hardest

I have been reflecting on the most painful part of my journey of not being able to get pregnant. I've filtered it down to a kind of chicken or egg question, or even a nature or nurture question. What is most important in the creation of a human being? Is it the DNA, the conception,  the environment a fetus/child develops in (the womb experience)... or is it the exposure to life experiences as the child grows into an adult? Of course, the real question in my heart is WHO is most important in the creation of a human being, the birth mother or the one who mothers outside of the womb?

I realize the answer is both/and, not either/or. However, here I stand on a precipice, attempting to make sense of my metaphysical and theological foundation, one of being an active part in creation and creating, and I cannot create new life nor grow it inside my body. From the outside looking in, there are plenty of ways to work around this, ways that include recognizing there are other types of creating. But no one can tell me that creating life is not the most basic and primal expression of such a metaphysical purpose.

I recognize not everyone is as focused on esoteric questions as I am. From the age of 12, I have been focused, obsessed even, with what the purpose of life is, what my purpose is, and how I am going to influence change in the world. For me, the struggle is not making me face the fundamental questions, it's making sure I stay grounded in the present experience. Knowing this, it makes sense that I am a chaplain. I've learned the art and skills of getting to the nitty-gritty of those questions while also nurturing a present mindfulness. I spend my professional time finding ways to help people get to the bottom of their grief, despair, anxiety, by answering these very spiritual and philosophical questions of meaning and purpose, then reframing their perspective... if for you, the world is xyz, then does the rest really matter? If you believe that God decides when you live and when you die, does it matter what the doctors think? If the true purpose of life is to love and be loved, then while your body and mind may have new limitations, by loving and being loved, you still are fulfilling your ultimate purpose... your life matters.

My goals are similar but also very different from a therapist. I believe this stems from a strong sense that spiritual revelation about self and world can alter a person's perception and thought process faster and deeper than anything else. Of course, it is also true that spiritual abuse and trauma can damage a person the quickest and deepest as well. Without hope, meaning or purpose, we are truly lost. We admire the perseverance of those who survive crisis and trauma because they cling to these things when the world feels like it is ending.

Our society is convinced that thinking will fix everything. We override our feelings at every opportunity. I may be exaggerating, but after years in chaplaincy, it seems like this is more true than not. The irony is that our feelings always affect our thoughts, just as our thoughts affect our feelings. And the glue that puts it all together is our spirit. To disconnect the spirit from the mind or body is futile.

So, my personal struggle lately has been an assumption that I never worked through or made sure it could stand up to scrutiny. I never looked too closely at whether this joy of being part of the creative universe would work for one who is not just barren, but also sitting in an ambiguous state- having the working parts but never knowing why one cannot conceive, never truly knowing if all those risk factors for baby and me really would have happened. I assumed as woman my body made me part of creating life, and I took pride in this. Without more than a passing glance of what it meant for men or those who never carry life, I created a theology with gaping holes in it. While my premise that we all are uniquely created and creating beings that are part of a changing universe is a great foundation, I thought like one of the privileged, not as one who might be considered marginalized.

Marginalization is a strange thing. I am considered by the BMI to be morbidly obese. I consider this a "scientific" way to marginalize me and put me in a box. This box inundates me with constant reminders that I'm not good enough for society. I am judged continuously, to the point that I did fear my weight would affect my ability to sustain pregnancy. I also lived in fear that my health problems, the same ones that contribute to my weight, meant I may not be part of the elite (conceivers) I so desperately wanted to claim as my own. Like a middle school child wanting to be popular, I focused on being someone else so hard that while the knowledge I may be different hovered in the background, I ignored it. I spent YEARS trying to change myself to fit in, to force my body to conform by dumping horrific drugs in me and manipulating hormones. I made life miserable for myself and anyone around me. While I may have said being healthy was my goal, it wasn't. Ultimately, I don't think I cared about my health as long as I could conceive and be pregnant successfully. I wanted drugs to force my body to do something it couldn't, something it may never be able to do. While I did set some ethical boundaries for myself, they were FAR from what I felt comfortable with. So here I sit, not even 6 months after I was told it was time to stop trying to get pregnant. I sit here and wonder what happened to me.

The simple answer is grief happened. Rage, despair, hopelessness happened. I became so swamped with strong emotions and reactions that it's no wonder I could not think straight. I would try to disconnect from my body's experience only to be forced to live with the consequences of biological forces manipulating my emotions and thoughts.  What a war with myself. If the spirit is the space between mind and body, the mortart that connects it all, then my mortar crumbled and fell apart in many, many places. Grief never leaves, but perhaps some healing can happen now and the mortar that is my spirit will mend.

The answer to my initial question about who's more important, birth moms or moms who raise the kids, is a mute point. I'm trying to create a hierarchy of value based on what society expects from us... instead of acknowledging that we all live in tension between many points. While I will continue to grieve for not having some of those points (conceiving, pregnancy), I live with many other points of tension, many other possibilities for future outcomes. It is no easy and I'm sure I will come up with many more questions like this one, ones that will hopefully bring me back to those simple questions of meaning and purpose.

Friday, February 10, 2012

Grief and My Soul Sucking Alien

So tonight my husband and I went on a date for Valentine's Day. We watched the movie "The Vow". The premise is that a woman wakes up after a car accident and has forgotten the last 5 years of her life, including meeting and marrying her husband, losing and meeting friends, fights with family, switching towns,  career paths, and life goals.  So much happened to change her life and she has to start all over again, discovering the same beliefs and convictions that led to the changes in the first place. She had to rediscover who she was and is.

Life transformations and transitions are interesting things. They seem to always sneak up on us, as if we haven't gone through them before or as if we don't know that life at 50 will be different than life at 20. So we stumble along, whine a little "Not AGAIN! How many times do I have to change?!", and ultimately feel lost, over and over and over. Some of us, if we're lucky, are found for a while. We have those periods of clarity, of who we are and why we're here. So many ways to talk about it, depending on your belief system. The planets aligned or everything came together or even God worked through me.

The past 3 years or so, especially the last 2, feel surreal to me, as if my memories are from another lifetime. The constant pressure, stress and side effects of fertility treatments and challenging health tainted everything I did or thought or felt. I'm not saying it was all bad or all good. It was both, just like life usually is, but somewhere along the way I lost myself. I tried not to. I tried really really hard not to. However, if you know me, you probably realize being around me often was kind of like listening to someone sing just slightly off key.

Since we decided to halt the fertility treatments for now (and most likely for good), a weight has been lifted off me. I kind of feel like a giant soul sucking alien parasite has been detached from my back. When it was detached, my life- body, heart and mind- went out of whack. I had to detox from the alien nasties or something. And now, at times, I can finally see more clearly, before the nasty returns.

The trouble is, this alien nasty is grief. And grief never leaves us. Not really. Funny how I've become a grief educator just as I experience some of the most heart wrenching grief I've ever experienced. It's not as if I haven't felt the loss of a dream before, the loss of a potential future being erased. But the dreams of babies who have my husband's eyes and my freckles are somehow different than the dreams I've had before. They feel more tangible, even though they are still ideas. When I was younger and I lost my faith in "The System", when I realized I could not really "Save the World", I never thought I'd get over that heartbreak and be able to hope again, to trust in a better future.  It was so very real to me at the time, that grief for intangible things. But with time, I did dream again, I did imagine a future where I can change the world... just not how I thought I would when I was an invincible teenager.

So right now, my faith is pretty low. I'm being honest. There are moments however I remember other times when I thought my heart would break. And guess what? I got through them. The grief is still there. A memory of a heartbreak, but those wounds no longer cut so deep. There are times I'm not sure I'm going to emerge from this abyss, but then I remember and I can at least have hope for a day where the pain is not so sharp, not so mind/heart/body twisted up.

Something about times of need heighten my awareness of music and song. Two songs speak to my dark place. One is a hymn from the 1880s, Uncloudy Day. Here is an excerpt:

Oh, they tell me of a home Far beyond the skies
Oh, they tell me of a home So far away
Yes, they tell me of a home Where no storm clouds rise
Oh, they tell me Yes, they tell me Of an uncloudy day
And another from  Florence and the Machines new single "Shake it Out"


I am done with my graceless heart
So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart
'Cause I like to keep my issues strong
It's always darkest before the dawn

Sunday, September 11, 2011

The ratty familiar blanket of grief

Grief is like an old blanket surrounding me. Its comfort isn't from softness, but from familiarity. Actually, it kind of chafes and often suffocates, but its an old friend by now. No matter what, it never leaves me. A constant in an ever-changing world. Through the weave of my blanket, I see the world distorted. When I should see the happiness in others, all I can see is what is not mine. I distantly recall others talking about how selfish grief made them feel, but I didn't truly understand. Now with every pregnant belly and smiling pictures of young families I see, I feel bitter, bitter feelings. Envy. Rage. Jealousy. Vicious and Cruel, it beats up my heart and soul.

No matter how hard my life was, I never wanted to be someone else. I never regretted my past. When I was flat on my back, looking up from where I fell, I would wipe the tears, smile, and get back up, looking forward to a better time. But in this dark place, I have begged and pleaded within my heart, that somehow, someway, I could be delivered, replaced, released from where I am now. There have been moments of despair so strong, I see what makes one bargain with the devil.  My heart is not allowed to make decisions for me these days. I cannot trust my usually sharp intuition about people, places, and emotions.

It is not in every moment that I feel like this. In fact, I have some very amazing, sun-drenched, soul-healing days. And moments that I see so clearly, even through the fabric of grief, that I can feel the acceptance and love of the universe deep within my bones. But the dark times are more terrfying than they ever were. They well up from within, like a geyser of black oil.

I'm not sure where to go, now that I've found this violently cruel place in myself. How does a mystic, a seeker of truth and beauty, turn so dark inside? Where is redemption, where is solace, where is forgiveness? I am not short-sighted or blind. I know my suffering is almost trite and so utterly common. There is  limitless amounts of suffering in this world.   But, it is now my turn to struggle with the experience. The grievances in my past, though some are terrible, seem so petty now.

The truth, ah yes, if I'm honest with myself, is in my anger. How can I feel connected to a universe I feel so betrayed by? Because I CANNOT accept that my infertility, my broken body, isn't someone's fault. Either it must be mine, or it must be the universe's. This is not some fluke, some accident of converging factors. This is my life. This is my future. There is NO freaking mystery here. It's not sacred or divine. It is pain and suffering. Out of the trillion and one threads of the future that lie before me in this moment, none of them are really in my control. The LURE that is supposed to encourage me to make positive choices is not present in this moment, because the choice is taken away from me.  And, yet, the universe is not something I can just ignore. It is all around me. I am made of it, body and soul. So I rant and rave at it, like a petulant teenager who wants to be free, but can't leave home.

Let me tell you the irrational and crazy thoughts that wrap around my strangled heart. One, I'm unworthy. Somehow the universe sensed this darkness in me, even when I didn't.  Two, I really am meant to be a vessel, a tool, for the universe to use. Therefore, I am allowed only so much happiness to distract me. Or perhaps, to be a better tool, I needed to be worn down with a bit of my own suffering. Three, from what the doctors told me, I really did have a choice when I was younger. I could have easily gotten pregnant at 20. I made my choice, now I have to live with it. And of course, this leads to thinking of infertility as a punishment for wrong choices, doesn't it? Four, I am a burden to my husband, I am broken and barren. What kind of partner makes him suffer for my problems? Five, I was made for this... to be a hospice chaplain, a preparer for the journey of death. Life and creation don't belong with someone like me. That is for other people. Six... well, the list is endless and ever changing.

I found myself thinking thoughts that would give up all my ethics and ideals just to be given the chance of conceiving. And with those thoughts, my anger, hurt, and despair now mingles with guilt and shame. I do not believe we are meant to be selfish creatures. We are meant for more than that.

The balm to my soul? The place I've found that allows me to keep moving forward? It's not a pretty happy place with rainbows and flowers. It's the rough, burlap blanket of grief that comforts me. An acceptance that pain and suffering is just part of me now. It's not bravery or courage, not really. Just the hard reality that this is who I am now. If by some fluke I became pregnant tomorrow and had a life with several of my own birth children, this pain would not disappear. It would still be a part of me. I may find a future that has more happiness than there is in this moment. I may adopt and surround myself with people to give my love to, but this blanket will never leave.

Where is my hope now? It is that this blanket may someday be a mantel, a cloak I wear with pride and love, as a place that I have been, a place I visit occasionally, but never have to linger as long as I am now.